Opinion pieces, travel articles, places and people; lots of poetry; commentary on current events and history and whatever else shows up on the radar. Articles have been numbered (since Sept. 2004). Go n-eiri an t-adh leat.

Friday, July 20, 2007

The idea behind this post is quite simple. The intent is to show new and returning readers how Ireland recovered its cultural self-confidence and then forged its political independence during the crucial four decades between the 1880s and the 1920s. The method is to create links to the biographies of 35 individuals who were born between the years 1846 and 1891, the actual lifespan of the “Uncrowned King of Ireland”, Charles Stewart Parnell.

Most of the work is done by Wikipedia – and yourselves. I supply the birthdates and the names. Some of these names may already be known to you; others probably will not. The interesting thing is that most of these people either knew each other personally or had at least heard of one another. Ireland is a small country and Dublin, even today, is little more than an extended village.

I’m not about to offer any useful hints (politician, playwright, revolutionary, trade union leader) since half of the fun is discovering who these people were and how they related to one another and the “re-creation” of Ireland. In the separate stories of their lives you can piece together the story of the nation-to-be.

In closing, I would like to emphasize the rather significant fact that nearly half of the people on this list were Protestants, which, in the Irish context, makes them descendants of families who had been part of the post-Reformation invasions and settlements of the 16th and 17th centuries This did not make them any less Irish than their “native” counterparts, whether descendants of the Gaels or the Normans of the Middle Ages. In fact, their identification with Ireland was in many ways more acute than the others because it involved a conscious rejection of England and English ways. Without these people the Irish could never have created the modern nation in the way they actually did – and this should never be forgotten or swept under the rug by Irish Irelanders in the style of D.P Moran who proclaimed that only a Catholic nationalist could be a true Irishman or Irishwoman. This is simply not true, and the evidence lies in these various biographies.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Airey was a friend in truth,a fairy, yes, but not a poof;a tough guy called Regthrew him off a high ledge.It's a long way to tip poor Airey.

When I have fears that I may cease to befar away from friends and family,I think, by God, although I'm odd,I welcome change, however strange:in a cheerful melancholy way,Death could be a holiday.

In fires forever burning,on a spit forever turning,just like a Turkish kebab;I'm glad I never paid the tabin so many clubs and bars.God, won’t they be raging!the thought is quite engaging:they’ll be tearing their hairas if I carefor all them drinks I bought!

I never thought,I never thought I’d wake upafter I hit the groundat ten zillion miles an hour.Splat! That’s that.Wishy-washy lack of beliefaffords but scant and thin relieffor the falling, failing agnostic.Here is a falsely true acrostic:Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.*

The myriad sons and daughtersof O’Leary of the Yellow Handhave formed a band,here in the place I’m at.I told that them I couldn’t sing,but they want to know what I can bringto add to the balance of joy.Where’s God? So sorry, m'boy,He’s away, he’s always away.And the Divil’s off in Osaka Japanto follow up on his business plan,(An Dhool is no fool)trawling for souls in a language school.

Listen, will I be dead for a long time?Just as long as ye like.On yer bike, resurrect some hobbyand make it last ten thousand years.Any wee jobby to keep yer mind off things,but stay away from collecting stamps:stamp tramps are pure ferocious:Super Calley Went Ballistic: Celtic Were Atrocious.Hierophants and sycophantsmake me want to wet me pants,revert to my psychosis.

But can I do that, like?Wet meself, scratch, play with girls?No, you can’t. You’re, like, disembodied.What about this pain in me arse?Imaginary, old son.You can keep the painbut yer arse is dead and gone.Where’s it gone to, so?The Soap Factory.

In cold brittle little exchangesI accommodate myself to certain changes.Aren’t ye glad ye’re Catlick?Y’wha?? Fuck you on about?Even so. You should see the shabby shedswhere they stick the poor sad feckin Neds.The Jews have chic flats in the Mews(they were right all along)Oooh, baby, won’t you shake your thong?Instruct us, don't you dare amuse!And them towel heads? Don’t arsk.I don’t ask. And the Jehovahs?They’re stuck with the oul’ whoresknocking on doors, forever and everand ever and ever. Amen.

Well, I never! This cheers me upconsiderably. Jayz, I couldkill for a pint. Are there any pubs in Hell?Naturallement! As Monsieur knows wellthe Squareheads, the Jocks and the Mickscouldn’t die without them. There are Czechsand balances, mind you, like the Skandieswho have acquired a taste for shaving lotion,an effective if quite "deadly" potion.Har, har, a pun. What fun! Listen,we send people back from time to time,would you like to go? I don’t know.Being dead's, like, doin’ in me head,but it’s not so bad, y’know?Even so. Pack up and go:back to the World of the Living.Cease receiving, son. Start giving.

O Jayzus, damn, by heck!I just got a bang on the back of the neck.I turn to my oppressor,a large and hairy male cross-dresserin a pink tutu and fawn little boots.Beige, ye barstid, fawn is outré!but what I really want to sayis 'oo the feck are yoo?I delivered a thump and a bit of a bump'coz ye look just like a ghostmon semblable, mon frere,are ye back from under there?"

I yam. Right, so, whattya think,will we call it quits and go for a drink?Seventeen pints after,ciggies, girls, and gurgling laughter,it's home with young Ivy Maloneon the Bakerloo, she don’t live alone.The thing to do, she tells me,is climb up the garden ladderBecause I reelly don’t want me fadderor mudder to see yez. Haul away.Show a light in the windy, sweet darlint,show a light where I can see yez,yer luverly pearl-white arms,yer full abundant charms!And here’s a tiny little kiss,a promise of a night of bliss.

I feel so drainedyet self-containedas I gaze into the glass:a faint recognitionof the apparitionI know to be myself.Dead, mislaid, or on the shelf,this, too, I think, shall pass.Her flashing eyes!Her thunderous thighs!All in two words explained:convent trained.Her legs grab tight-ily,mightily wrap around my ass:heave-ho, puff and blow!Sky is high and ocean deep:will she never go to sleep?

Ah, it’s not bad to be aliveonce more. I can’t remember whenbefore it felt this cool. A general ruleis to keep the head down low,and let the winds crack and blowabove you, like young sweet Ivy Malonebreathing hard in her shoebox of a roomup there on Dollis Hill.I close my eyes, I remember stillher posters of Duran Duran,the night I was her only man.

Being dead ain’t that bad, either,once you get the hang of it, like.The thing is being killed,being shot or stabbed or smashed to bitsor tossed off a high building;that’s the bit I don’t much care for.Reg had hairs sprouting from his noseand he had a bit of a ripe smell about him,so when he pushed me off the roof that dayI had a bit of a snob thing about him,not at all in my league, I’d have to say.

Time to drop in on hairy Reg.I can imagine his moonlike pasty faceas he takes my presence in.I’ll slip in the icy uncanny wedgeof fear. Here is a ghost, my dear!But things seldom work outquite as one expects: in many respectsDeath and Life are both unfair.I stand before this old armchairand gaze on Reg, unprepossessing sight,He’s been out all night,God, he looks the worse for wear;wheezing, snorting through his nose,crumpled-up clothes, drunk as a coot,one filthy, ugly, smelly brute.

When he wakes up, I’ll top him,but not until he knows,not until he really knows.Then I’ll walk into the hall,and descend. I need a friend,have none at all. I was in loveand then I wasn't in love.I was also once in life,and then no longer in that.Snow falls on distant mountains.Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.Drip … drip … drip.

-----------------------------------------------------* a falsely true acrostic, in that only 22 of the 28 letters are used with an extra 'e' thrown in; seven words.